poems – AGE IN ACTION

The Time of Falling Leaves

Autumn
the time of falling leaves.
frost is in the air,
leaves no longer red,
in the time
of mountain winds,
when birds fly away,
fleeing the coming cold,
the birth of ice,
the time of change.

Death follows me
Like a stalker in black.
Am I afraid,
No, I don’t think so:
Oceans roll in and out
Birds fly south
It’s the nature of things.

Life has been lived
We all do our best,
Thinking, reaching,
Loving and suffering,
We muster forth.

Steeps have been climbed
And rivers run
As Mozart plays
A symphony of life.

In the end,
happy and sad
Blend into one
A time of reflection,
a time of peace,
a time of journey’s end.

Italy

Italy, a place where the cliffs
Fall into the sea and
The sun glistens off the water,
Where the aroma of warm Bread
drifts along the
The meandering streets of Revello, and
the cobblestone ways of Tuscan villages.

Yes, it is a magical place,
a place to wander,
a place to love,
a place to feel life’s music,
and bask in a symphony of color and taste.

From the mountains of Cortina d’Ampezzo
To the coral seas of the Bay of Napoli
From the Isle of Capri
To the Grand Canal of Venezia,
From the rolling fields of the Piemonte
To the undulations of the Cinque Terre
The rhythm of Italy reverberates
Creating ease and joy
Passion and pride.

Kissed by the sun,
Embraced by the sea,
Soothed by the music of the land,
And blessed by
The magic it creates,
Italy lives on.

Gathering the Threads

We come to you with threads undone—
of guilt that will not be released,
of loneliness that chills the bone,
of trauma’s echo, never ceased;

we bring the shock of sudden grief—
a parent gone, a child unwell,
a friend’s betrayal without relief,
and sleepless nights we know too well.

We lay before you all we’ve stored,
this bitter gall, this inward cry—
torn shreds of sorrow, scattered, worn,
a cloth that cannot hold or lie.

And you—
you take each trembling, broken thread,
not rushing what has long been bound;
with patient hands and presence spread,
a shelter safe for all that’s said.

How shall we name the splendor of your art—
this quiet loom, this patient heart?

You do not force, you do not bind,
but sit beside our searching minds;
and in that space, both wide and still,
new colors come, new shapes of will.

A tear you do not ask us to hide,
you see it—and let it abide;
in silence deep, a reverent space
where cleansing finds its time and place.

One day, in distress, we will gather these threads,
though once we could not see their hand;
you showed us how the scattered strands
could form a stronger, steadier band.

And what was once so torn apart
becomes the fabric of our hearts—
a quilt of memories we can wear,
stitched firm with loss and tender care.

You have helped us weave this story,
with patches stitched in truth, not blame;
but hands that hold the child in us
and gently call a kinder name.

For in this sacred, shared exchange,
the seeds of love have now been sown…
what once we received in quiet grace
becomes the strength we’ve grown.

A life renewed we’ve come to live,
beyond the loss we once had grieved;
and so the cloth we have received
becomes the one we learn to give.

© Dick Millspaugh

Dick Millspaugh is a retired Board Certified Hospital Chaplain ordained by the United Methodist Church. He was previously Chief of Chaplains at the VA San Diego Healthcare System. Dick and his wife currently reside in Scripps Ranch. He enjoys writing poetry, woodworking, ceramics, and playing Bocce Ball.

A Choice for Today

Aging lurks in the savannah grass,
Stalking us, its prey, before we pass
Spring-loaded haunches, silent, still,
Closing in to inflict its will.

Aging creeps close, by eons trained,
By its design, we suffer pain
It seeps into marrow, heart, and vein,
With cunning plan to declare its reign.

No nation stands, no tribe’s immune,
The march of age sets each to ruin.
It stalks the strong, it marks the frail,
And pride or fame will not prevail.

And yet within its shadowed arc,
A gentler gift still warms the heart:
Memories treasured, voices dear,
The taste of bread, a toast of cheer.

The silent sound of fresh falling snow
The places where only lovers go
The smell fresh-brewed coffee brings
The thrill of butterflies fall-colored wings.

Memories sweet, each to recall,
When bodies fall to aging’s call
And minds fuss and fret about what we forget,
Still hope endures, when love grows deep.

So within aging’s shadowed arc,
A gentler gift still warms our hearts:

We have today to touch, to live,
To love, to laugh, to learn, to forgive.
To breathe and sing, to weep and play —
What treasures come to us along our way.

And when we step beyond the grass,
May pain fall silent, may sorrow pass.
May new life creep up on us
To feed us wonder for eons plus.

May we greet old friends we hold dear
May troubles of our current strife disappear
May our fondest loving hopes come true
May there be eternal peace for me and you.

So within aging’s shadowed arc,
Healing gifts will warm our hearts:
With grace that holy love imparts.

With grace that only love imparts.

© Dick Millspaugh

Haiku and More…

As colored leaves fall,
So do our years and our plans
To mother earth’s arms

As rings expand trees’ trunks
Beauty revealed in cutting
Words express our souls

My tomatoes flower
Yet no fruit appears
How like aging, sometimes

To Sit With You

What nourishment
To sit with you
At the table
of your life

What nourishment
To hear with you
the pain of love’s
lost opportunities
turned to wine
aged to compassion
birthing empathy
for others from
the graves of
our shared losses

What nourishment
to be trusted by you
to be held
in your heart’s embrace
and to feel in your warmth
the call to life
a resurrection
of our hidden buried selves
longing to be loved into life

What nourishment
to sit at table
with you
to be…..
just to be…
and to know
and deeply feel
that each of us
is enough
just to be…
is enough

The Time Of The New Moon

Speak of a time of sorrow,
When the brave have fallen
And the moon has passed.
Time has traveled forth.
Bringing a new season,

When summer returns,
The sun will shine,
and the streams flow
through meadows,
where we once lay
watching the path
of the crescent moon,
the sparkle of the skies,
and hearing
the sound
of the silent wind.

History recycles
Bringing new lovers,
New times,
As the moon brings light,
Soon to fade
to the darkness of night
And the birth of new light.

The Last Word

Once upon a time, I bought a single lime.
Unbeknownst to me, it was rotten as could be.
I put it in a sack with a plan to take it back
But the seller laughed at me and denied my refund plea.

I felt my face grow red I whacked him in the head
Yet, he gave no heed to me, rather, he turned away in glee
And then turned back and said, “I’d rather see you dead,
Because you struck me on my head”

“Than give you a single dime for your claim about your rotten lime.”
Next came a thought about the lime I’d bought
What if I feigned the dreadful act the seller wished in vain?
What if I did fall upon the ground as if death itself had struck me down?!

I ‘d act as if I’d died, my revenge fulfilled and satisfied.
So, I sank to the sod with a wink and a nod
Before the gathered crowd, with a convincing cry so loud
Men gasped in dismay; women fainted in their most dainty way.

I fell as if I’d slipped into the spell of death’s final grip.
Oh, I was so proud of my display before the sympathetic crowd.
The salesman stepped forward, horrified, convinced that I had died.
He pled with all his might, “Here, take your dime for your rotten lime.”

“Take it back, my brother. In fact, I’ll give you another.”
I, on the other hand, was so pleased with my plan
That I lay there day to day, my feigned death on display.
Retribution felt so sweet, but the price of it led to my defeat.

In fact, I’m still lying there today.
So, if you pass along my way,
Just bow your head and say,
“Oh, that’s the man who passed away when”

“He came to claim a single dime for a single rotten lime.
His pride was strong; his vanity had such a grasp
That after he feigned his death
He succumbed at last to death’s grasp
Because he declined to accept a single dime
for a single rotten lime.”

Tag: poems